The Fight Against Meca-Hitler

Intermission: Medic!

“Well, I say we just sit tight right here for a spell until Spooks… Mr. Lowsley gets better.” River sounded concerned. While he didn’t particularly care for or respect Lowsley’s opinions, he still didn’t want the man to bleed out from surviving a hit from what Henderson called “a God-damned monstrous Ogre-Nazi-Boogeyman!” River certainly wasn’t a doctor (And neither is that waste of breath we came here for. Where in God’s name did all that schooling money go if he doesn’t the first damn thing about doctoring?) but he knew enough to know that moving Lowsley right now was less than ideal. Henderson, however, shook his head.

“Didn’t you say this camp was just a waystation? In other words, someone’s coming for Mr. Gesalle soon. We need to leave.” Everyone agreed, and rather than carry Lowsley’s unconscious form, everyone donned Nazi uniforms and left the camp in the truck sitting passively at the back of the camp. Callahan drove, though he didn’t speak German. He insisted and River was simply too exhausted to care.

Fortunately, the ride was uneventful. As they approached the town, River instructed Callahan to drop them off near the Vineyards, home to the French resistance in the town. “Then I want you to drive this damn abomination of a vehicle into that river and let it drown. Got it Wings?” As Callahan drove off with a look of amusement in his eyes, River knocked on the old French woman’s door. She was unhappy to see him in a Nazi uniform.

“Now look here, I understand what this looks like, but I assure you were got these threads off some dead Nazis. You think some filthy Nazi would sound as dignified as I do? No ma’am, this here is a perfect accent, made in the fine hills of Virginia, not the harsh hell-pit of Berlin. Now, please, one of our friends has been injured while killing Nazis, and we need to get him lying down and getting better.” After a few more indications that he was not, in fact, a Nazi, the old woman took them into the house and began applying home-made remedies to Lowsley. He didn’t look good. His breathing was haggard and rough, his chest bloody and caved, and where his skin wasn’t purple, it was stark white.

“Think he’ll live?” Henderson asked. River looked passively as the old woman gingerly applied fresh bandages to Lowsley’s chest.

Henderson was reading through Lowsley’s journal with the fervor of a new disciple. The image of the ogre kept flashing throughout his mind and Henderson wanted to know more in a frantic attempt to save his own life should the supernatural once again attack. River had been pacing most of the day, and continued to do so as the sun set. Callahan was enjoying a plate of strawberries the old woman had given them.

“We need to get Lowsley to the Embassy. We should leave soon, so as not to miss that smuggler, assuming the old boy returns.” Said River.

“You know, these are the best strawberries I have ever had. They are incredibly succulent.”

“You think he’ll be okay?” Henderson sounded pessimistic. River looked at him for a moment without saying anything.

“I’m serious, these berries are unbelievable. You need to try some. Juice just explodes right in my mouth.” Callahan extended the plate towards the other two. River ignored him.

“If we leave now, we probably won’t be stopped by any Nazi’s and we can move slow enough to—”

“Now? French-lady just said she’d bring some raspberries and wine!” Callahan looked legitimately upset. River looked ahead without any emotion on his face and slowly turned his head to look at the pilot.

“Wings, I’m only going to say this once. If you open your mouth again in the next ten minutes, I may be forced to exert a righteous vengeance upon your uncaring mouth. You hear me boy?” Callahan smiled and nodded, remembering how strong army ties were and falling back into that old style. Quietly, they all grabbed Lowsley and lifted him up, trying not to apply pressure and hoping he could survive the trip.

Lowsley opened his eyes slowly, the sunlight blinding him. The last he could remember, his chest felt like a train had slammed into it, and now he laid on a hospital bed feeling weak, but alive. For several minutes he stayed still, trying to figure out if anything was missing. Nothing was. Eventually a nurse came over and saw he was awake.

“Finally awake? Good. You were touch and go for a few days.”

“Where am I?” Lowsley’s voice was thick and sounded unused. The nurse smiled as she checked his pupillary reflex.

“The American Embassy, Mr. Bell.” Mr. Bell? Ah, I’m so proud of all of you, remembering… Lowsley fell back onto his bed and fell asleep for a few hours.

When Lowsley woke again, he was staring at a grinning River Daniels. The exuberant Virginian held a small bouquet of flowers and had a small folded piece of paper in his other hand.

“Well, you seem a bit caddywompus, Spooks. Rough night?” Lowsley looked at River with a sense of confusion, figuring he had been insulted but not sure how.


“Bless your heart Spooks. I’ve got to admit though, you were right about those Nazi-boogeymen. If it weren’t for you, maybe I wouldn’t have been the first from our group to have killed me a Nazi-boogeyman; right between the old peepers. I do say it was a beautiful shot that only a true God-fearing Virginian could have pulled off.” Lowsley let his body relax and he looked up at the ceiling, his face in a grimace.

“So Mr. Daniels, did you come to insult me while I’m at death’s door? Or are you here for a purpose?” River frowned and nodded.

“Well, I understand that your sensibilities are a little damaged, but you should remember that I did say you were right. Now, these are for you.” River handed Lowsley the bouquet of roses which the Englishman took with a sense of disdain and appreciation. “And this too. Thought you might be bored out of your mind here. Besides, seems like you might be able to do something useful with it.”

River handed Lowsley the folded paper and gave him a strange salute. Lowsley figured it was an American thing. He opened the paper and saw a strange assortment of symbols on it. It was clearly a message or some manner, perhaps related to the occult. Lowsley stared at it curiously, trying to recollect what the symbols meant.

“And Spooks? Get better soon, boy. We need you out there.”


Episode 2: A Physicist in France

“All right, so our objective, as far as I can tell, is to go rescue Mr. Francois Gesalle, some fool French doctor who got himself wrapped up more than a temp-estuous lover between the sheets with some Nazi boogeymen. That about sums it up.” River Daniels nodded, knowing there was more to their mission, but content enough with what he said to flip the confidential folder closed and pat on his jacket for a cigarette.

“Mister Daniels, surely there’s more. You haven’t even given his location yet.” Lowsley, Callahan, and Henderson all looked confused, waiting for Daniels to tell them more about the mission. Lowsley looked notably annoyed.

“Huh. And here I thought Spooks would be asking more about ghosts or fairies or some other such child’s play that would waste all our time.”

“Mister Daniels. The location.”

“Boy,” River softly let out a steady stream of smoke into Lowsley’s face while he gathered his thoughts. “You put your hand in the cage, you better expect a paw, you understand? Now you calm that tone of yours while I finish my cigarette here, and don’t ever interrupt a Virginian man while he’s lighting up a cigarette.” There was an awkward silence while River smoked, pleased that he had cowed Lowsley and the young investigator brooded about having to work with Americans. Eventually, Henderson cleared his throat.

“Pardon me for the interruption, sir, but I was wondering about any other details on the mission. Sir.” Henderson even gave a short salute, curious given that River was in the military. Still, River nodded appreciatively.

“See Turnip, you act more like that and we’ll get along just fine. Take notes in your little diary Spooks. Apparently, Frenchy’s in Northern France. Those Nazi Boogey-men got him making some kind of full spectrum… hold on,” River flipped open the file and fingered down to a specific line. “Full spectrum multivapor (that was the word I was not recollecting here) converter. So we’ve got to go into France via England, get the good doctor, and then leave faster than a jackrabbit on a date. Spooks, you know someone in England?” Lowsley looked contemplative throughout the briefing and nodded somewhat impassively.

“Gentlemen, if I could make a request. While in England, please do not refer to me as Daniel Lowsley. That name has some… unfortunate history in the cities. Please call me Trevor Bell.” Callahan and Henderson looked curious but agreed. River just nodded his head and smoked, saying nothing.

“I said do you know anyone who can cross the English channel right now?” Lowsley was getting frustrated. He wasn’t using any of his old underworld contacts, but he still knew where to go to get what you need, at a price. Instead he got dead ends and scared faces.

“I believe I already told you, you uptight, superior fucking twat, no one crosses the bloody channel!” The man was poor, and in poor health. Lowsley wasn’t sure if it was the several missing teeth or the gum disease that he could smell even from ten feet away, but the man’s accent was almost unintelligible, even for Lowsley. Thank God I didn’t bring Daniels along…

“Well surely there is someone who can cross the damned channel! Smugglers, perhaps?” Lowsley took out a five pound note and snapped it in his fingers. The man looked at it with a sense of increased recollection. “Smugglers, you say? Now that you mention it, I do remember the name of this man, you might have heard of him. Baxter Tremont. He can get you across. Now give me that bloody fiver!” Lowsley walked back to the American Embassy with what he considered bad news. He had hoped to never hear the name Baxter Tremont again.

Lowsley pointed out a tall and stocky man standing near a lamppost on a street corner, smoking a cigarette and generally looking quite intimidating. He, River, Callahan, and Henderson all stood some distance away, waiting for further instructions in a seedy and battered part of London. “Talk to that man.” Lowsley didn’t want to have anything to do with discussing transport with Tremont. He knew it would only make the situation worse.

“You want me to go talk with a man on some God-forsaken street corner like a prostitute? Boy, I hope you are running me for a loop right now, because if not…” River was not happy. Neither was Lowsley. Lowsley quickly looked around and found the worst pub he could.

“Fine then, why don’t you take them into the Slippery Hagfish? Finest chips you’ll find in London, they are.” River almost drew his pistol on the spot and shot Lowsley.

“You think I’m going to eat anything at a bar named after some filthy damned fish? I knew leaping the pond would land me in a pisshole, but God-almighty!” As the two streetcorner thugs looked over at the commotion, Callahan patted River on his back.

“Look, let’s just go and talk to these people and see what happens? Worst comes to worst, we’ll fight and get a drink!” River agreed, shaking his head in amazement, and walked off with Callahan. Henderson started to leave as well when River said “You stay with Spooks, Turnip.”

The Slippery Hagfish was certainly a dive; poorly lit, ripped up ceiling and floor, uncomfortable chairs, and a dirty looking bartender who grimaced whenever the door opened. River and Callahan sat at the bar with the thugs in close proximity, both Englishmen looking livid they were taken away from their streetcorner.

“All right gentlemen, first is there anything you might like to drink?”

“Aye, wheel ‘ave the blawdy sayem thin’ we git ’ere all the time.” River could barely understand the man through his overbearing accent and he lowered his head, whispered “Oh dear Jesus, give me strength in my time of trouble.”


“Nothing, get the man… the usual. Do you have any fine whiskey perhaps? I feel like I may need the sweet nectar of the divine to continue through the hardship of such a war-torn country.” After drinks had been served, River looked at the imposing thug.

“Now, I’m interested in hopping across that little waterway towards Northern France, discreetly if at all possible, and I understand you are the man to talk to.” The thug shook his head.

“Not me, ye wanna tawk te Baxter. Wait ’ere.” The man slammed down his ale and then left the pub for several minutes while River drank his whiskey (piss poor drink, I always knew these Brits didn’t know how to make a decent nectar) and Callahan cracked his knuckles in anticipation of something going wrong. After several minutes, the thug walked back in with a small and weaselly-looking man behind him. The man looked well-dressed, had oiled hair, and looked around with a sense of ownership.

“I unnerstand ye need some transport ’cross the channel?”

“Are you Baxter Tremont?” Callahan asked with a not invisible amount of disappointment. Baxter looked at Callahan with disgust.

“Yes, and I suggist ye show more respect. This is my town.” Callahan smiled at him and nodded. This is what Lowsley was afraid of?

River and Callahan had secured passage to and from Northern France on one of Tremont’s smuggling ships, and River had even procured some fine French wines to use as a cover. His plan was that they would pretend they were smugglers if anything went wrong. Lowsley spent the day making fake NICs for everyone, instructing Callahan and Henderson to pretend to be war profiteers or smugglers if caught, as they didn’t speak French or German. As the sun was setting, the four went to a secluded area on the docks and met with their captain, climbing on board the dingy with a small concern about it sinking. It didn’t quite look like a seaworthy vessel.

The only other person on the boat was a man who identified himself as Mark. Lowsley began to ask about his story, but the man kept talking about his family being trapped in France; a common enough story what with the war. Eventually, no one paid the man any mind until Lowsley heard Mark shuffling around in their bags. Quickly he drew his gun and alerted the others, all four facing off against Mark.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Henderson sounded quite upset from the invasive offense. Mark turned quickly and looked nervous, drawing a German Lugger and pointing it from one to the other while Lowsley raised his own.

“Why are four of you going to France?” Mark’s accent dropped and a clear German accent came through. Lowsley narrowed his eyes as River extended his hands in friendship.

“Look here, my good sir, there’s no need for anyone to get hurt. Why don’t you just put that gun down and relax, all right?” River sounded incredibly sympathetic, but Mark looked increasingly frantic. “What your family, Mark? Don’t do something foolish, all right?”

Mark laughed coldly. “Family? I think it’s obvious now what I am.” River’s face hardened. “Ah, what a shame.”

Lowsley’s gun rang out and a bullet smashed into Mark’s shoulder, causing his gun to turn away from everyone. Callahan and Henderson ran up and punched Mark unconscious, a single shot from his gun firing off into the dark. They were tying him up when Henderson asked “Does anyone have a first aid kit?” Lowsley walked up, his long coat flapping in the wind.

“I believe I can help.” Everyone stepped aside, expecting Lowsley to bandage the man. Instead he fired a bullet into Mark’s face, blood and bone spraying everywhere. Lowsley holstered his pistol and turned around to see a livid River.

“Now what in the Hell was that?”

“Perhaps you didn’t see what his people did to London? Did you miss all the broken buildings, the starving families? Mark was a Nazi and I killed it. That’s what you do with Nazis.” Everyone looked away, feeling like the world had just become a little darker.

The four looked at a small city in Northern France, wondering if Doctor Gesalle was hidden somewhere in it. Unanimously, they decided to use on the French Resistance contacts River had acquired and let his gather more information, as he was the only French speaker of the four of them. River strolled around town while the others waited in a vineyard out of town. It took several hours, but River found a more knowledgeable member of the resistance who gave him the location of a hidden Nazi debriefing camp, which is probably where Doctor Gesalle had been taken. Feeling confident and knowing time was of the essence, River walked out of the city, eager to get back to his compatriots. On the way out, he was stopped by a German officer, who began talking to him about the resistance, his reason for being in France, Nazi Germany and other impleasantries he thoroughly detested.

“Of course, Mr. Kline, I understand business is still important to Americans, even in this time of war. You understand my concern your potential threat, I hope.” River nodded and feigned understanding.

“Oh of course, my good soldier. Even in America there are several individuals that I would question on sight as well.”

“Like the Blacks?” River grimaced and nodded, hating everything about France at the moment.

It was under cover of darkness that the four left for the hidden Nazi camp. There was a curfew, and getting caught wouldn’t be great, but they all agreed to simply not get caught. The directions to the camp ended in a forest that none of them were particularly excited to go into (Lowsley had passed out garlic to everyone). For an hour they walked quietly through the woods until they came across a soft light. All four had to hold back gasps as they looked at the area.

There were only two small buildings and a large campfire in the center area giving the soft glow. Four Nazi’s patrolled around with automatic rifles. But the thing that startled everyone was a massive humanoid shape, standing ten feet tall at least, and five feet wide. It had impossibly huge muscles, and a sunken, unintelligent face, with a skin color that went from a dark red to a stark white, as though its skin was stretched in some regions and bunched in others. It had a Nazi insignia nailed into its shoulder, and a Nazi flag dragged across its chest as though it was a piece of clothing. In its hand was a massive club.

“What in the Sam-Hell is that?” Lowsley was trying to read his journal by the firelight as River voiced his sense of disbelief. “I believe that creature is called an Ogre; a monstrously large and impossibly strong creature. We should avoid it.”

“No shit.” Callahan sounded almost unwilling to continue with the mission but nodded at Henderson, who had since thrown mud all over his face to ‘disguise himself.’ Quietly, they all spread out and started moving along the edge of the clearing. Henderson, crawling low through the brush, snapped a twig louder than he thought possible.

“Vas?” One of the guards looked in Henderson’s direction as everyone froze. The guard walked closer and peered into the forest, coming closer and closer as he held his gun tighter. Ten feet. He pulled the lever back on his gun and readied it. Lowsley holstered his pistol and slowly removed a few vials and chemicals from his jacket. Five feet. The guard looked hard into the forest and then saw a small edge of flesh through Henderson’s mud-covered face.

“Kommen sie hier! Helfe!” Callahan lept out of the forest edge, blindsiding the guard and spin-kicking him in the face. Henderson, hoping to knock the guard out before he fired his gun, also smashed a fist into his jaw. The guard, however, fired a shot as he staggered back, the bullet smashing into the ground and causing dust to fly into the air. Lowsley ran around the tree edge as Callahan finished the Nazi off, but the other two near the campfire ran to help. Gunfire rang out across the small camp as the Nazi’s fired into the trees and fired at Henderson and Callahan. River took aim with his pistol and caught one of the guards in the leg while Lowsley threw a vial of chemicals at the other Nazi who was about to start pumping bullets at Callahan. The vial flashed brightly, blinding the man for a few seconds as he stumbled about. Lowsley ran across the camp and up to one of the cabins, peeking in. Empty. Damn.

Just then Lowsley caught a bullet in the shoulder from the fourth guard who was standing near a Nazi truck. Lowsley pulled out his gun and he and Henderson fired at the guard, dropping the man immediately. River and Callahan, meanwhile, finished off the guard River had injured and took cover behind the cabin from the other. The last guard, no longer blind, took a shot at Callahan and ripped a hole in his arm. Lowsley figured he was safe for the moment when the ogre ran around the cabin right in front of Lowsley. He didn’t even have time to react. Henderson watched as Lowsley was lifted into the air by the ogre’s club, smashing into the cabin like a rag doll and crumpling to the ground in a wheezing mass of broken bone and oozing blood.

Henderson, Callahan, and River all ran around the corner, firing bullets frantically into the Nazi and dropping him after his body was done convulsing from gunfire. Lowsley leaned against the cabin, trying to breathe as his vision blurred and started to fade. He looked at the ogre through bloodshot eyes and saw it ran around the cabin again, chasing after new prey. A single shot rang through the air and the bullet burst out the back of the ogre’s massive head, spraying brain-matter in an arc through the air. The ogre fell with a resounding thump and Lowsley wanted to smile.

Henderson ran over to Lowsley and grabbed a first aid kit from the nearby cabin, trying to bandage him up. His breathing stabilized and soon he fell unconscious, vaguely aware of Henderson snapping a photo of the ogre with his camera. He heard a few gunshots from the other, larger cabin and ran to see Callahan and River helping a worn looking man stumble out of the cabin. It was Doctor Gesalle.

“All right doctor, we’ve got a man severely injured by that Nazi-boogeyman I killed, let’s all take that in by the way; I killed that Nazi Boogeyman. So why don’t you go doctor him up.” The emaciated French physicist looked at River incredulously.

“I’m a physicist, not a medical practitioner. I can no more fix your soldier than you can.”

“So… you aren’t a real doctor, is that what you’re saying to me?”

“Guys, we need to leave. Now.” Callahan sounded concerned as he looked around at the situation, eyeing the Nazi truck eagerly. Henderson carried Lowsley to the truck as he reflected on the oddity of the camp.

So the supernatural is real? Jesus, what the hell did we get into with Division 7?

Episode 1: The Introduction

Jebudiah Henderson gave a call to senator C. Wayland Brooks while he read the paper. The frontline article further elaborated on the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, even though it had been two days ago. Information on the sunken ships, lost men and women, total cost of damages and so forth were all over the paper and Jebudiah looked grim.

“Senator Brooks? Yes, hello my old friend, this is Jebudiah. Henderson, of course, yes. How are you senator? Oh that sounds wonderful. And your boy, I assume his schooling is going well? Yes, well you know how those young boys can be, senator, he just needs some focus, that’s all. Yes, my boy just got done with basic. Actually, senator, it’s my boy I wanted to talk about, if that’s all right with you.” Jebudiah looked at a picture of his son while he chatted on the phone, the news paper lying open on his desk. His room was opulent and he talked with a nonchalance characteristic of a man who has always had what he needed, and almost always what he wanted. There was little doubt in his mind that the senator would agree to his favor.

“Yes, see my boy just finished basic, as I said, and he is in top shape, very obedient… oh yes, you know how he is, of course! Now I heard from a few reputable sources that you boys up there in Washington were starting up some kind of operation… no, I don’t know anything about it senator. mm-hmm. Oh yes, I am the very soul of discretion, make no mistake. Of course. Now, what I was wondering is if you could pull a few strings for my boy and get him into this operation. Oh of course, senator, I’m sure he’ll do just fine, he just needs a little push and some direction. You will? Excellent, just call his commanding officer. And senator? Thank you very much.”

Jebudiah put the phone down and felt proud of himself and proud of his son. He could only dream of the limitless potential such a start to a military career would portend.

Issac Callahan was on a small shuttle on his back, sliding the stiff wooden board back and forth as he tinkered with the underbelly of his crop-duster. He was slick black in oil and looked a mess, but smiled as he turned a few gears and tried to make sure the old girl would fly well. There were few things he enjoyed more than flying, and though he wasn’t quite an engineer, he knew engines well enough to keep them running.

Issac was pretty sure he was finished and slid out from under the plane to see a man in a black suit approaching him. Unusual customer, especially out here… he thought to himself.

“Howdy! What can I do for you?” Issac stood up and grabbed a dirty looking hand towel, wiping the grease and oil off of his hands and forehead.

“Mr. Callahan? I’m Gary Smith with Washington. We have an opportunity for you to serve your country and defend it from the global threat that has now attacked our borders. Are you willing to serve?” Mr. Smith looked stone-faced and unassuming, waiting patiently for his response. Issac, however, just nodded and looked somewhat incredulous.

“Would I get to fly?”

River Daniels sat calmly in his house located comfortably in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains, enjoying the snow-covered landscape and thinking about how much he loves his land, and therefore how much he dislikes the Japanese for attacking it. River likes to maintain an awareness of his country and its turmoils, if for no other reason than to feel like a better American.

As River sat and drank a nice warm coffee, he watched as a man in a black suit walked up to his door and knocked. Curious, he stood up, straightened his shirt, and opened the door.

“Well good morning to you kind sir, and I do hope you aren’t trying to sell me something in my time of grief.” River spoke with a slow and distinguished Southern drawl; an inflection and style he has worked on over the years. The Suit shook his head and extended his hand.

“Mr. Daniels, my name is Albert Smith with Washington. We have an opportunity for you to serve your country and help fight back the global threat that has attacked our borders. Are you interested in defending America?” Mr. Smith looked stone-faced and unassuming, waiting patiently for a response. River, however, calmly finished his coffee and grabbed his coat.

“Well, mister Smith, I was fixing to go a piece to the grocery store, but since Uncle Sam seems to be a-calling, perhaps I’ll take you up on your offer. Some of those axis boys do need a good ass-kicking, yes sir they do.”

Daniel Lowsley had come to America from England not only to get away from the war and his somewhat sordid past, but also to investigate some supernatural possibilities in Massachusetts. It was late at night just two days after Pearl Harbor, though Daniel was completely unaware of such events. He was more interested in wandering around Sleepy Hollow Cemetery with a lantern, a journal, and a bag of pens and various chemicals.

It was as Daniel was kneeling on the cold ground, brushing snow off of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s tombstone and jotting down notes in the soft lantern light that he heard the noise of snow crunching. Quickly he turned and lifted the lantern, reaching into his bag and pulling out a strand of garlic. He put the garlic away with a tinge of embarrassment when he saw a man in a black suit approaching him.

“Look, if you’re here to tell me to leave, I already talked to the groundskeeper and he said it was fine for me to be here, as I’m conducting very serious work here. And if you’re here to try that ‘deportation’ nonsense again, I have a valid visa and I’m not just here to avoid the war, now please leave me to my work!” Daniel had a more refined British accent than most would after growing up on the streets of Manchester, and indeed his appearance didn’t suggest anything of the sort. The Suit stopped short of Daniel and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Mr. Lowsley, I’m not here to ask for identification. I am Benjamin Smith with Washington. A situation has arisen that requires your expertise as it pertains to the global war. Are you interested in finding out more about your work? Or would you prefer to return to petty theft and forgery?” Mr. Smith looked stone-faced and unassuming, waiting patiently for a response. Daniel, however, frowned and gathered his things.

“I expect this is be relevant, Mr. Smith. I dislike having my time wasted and I detest threats.”

Parker Henderson, Daniel Lowsley, River Daniels, and Issac Callahan all stood waiting in a nice room in Washington D.C. All four looked at each awkwardly. Parker was dressed in a clean and crimped military uniform, Daniel in a wool suit with a long overcoat bulging in every pocket, River in a fashionable suit and tie, and Issac in a less-than-fashionable suit while he spun a pencil in his fingers with incredible speed and control. Finally, River couldn’t take the silence.

“So I can tell what Turnip here is,” he began, gesturing to Parker absently, “but I’m a little confused as to who you gentlemen are. So allow me to introduce myself first. My name is River Daniels, just a simple Virginian here to serve his country with the finest distinction.” Daniel immediately nodded and cleared his throat as quietly as possible.

“My name is Daniel Lowsley. I’m a journalist of supernatural phenomenon, and I suspect I’m here for that very purpose.” The mood paused for a moment as River looked about with an aire of disbelief.

“I’m sorry, boy, I must have had a bee in my ear, because I could have sworn you said one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard in my life. Come again?” Daniel, quite used to incredulous behavior, took out a journal and flipped through the pages while he put on some reading spectacles. “Have you ever read H.P. Lovecraft? He wrote of demons and gods that have invaded our world—”

“All right, son, you are just down right sorry and I think we’ve heard enough from you. What about you, boy, what ridiculousness do you have to add to my already drink-inducing day?” River spoke directly to Issac who was suppressing a laugh at Daniel. Parker, meanwhile, stood tall and waited patiently for orders.

“Me? I’m the best damn pilot on the East coast!” River nodded his head with a soft “uh-huh.”

“Mr. Daniels, if you please, I have some notes here from interviews I’ve had with some men that have reportedly seen either Vampires or Werewolves, and the accounts are really quite interesting.”

“How about you, Turnip? What teat were you suckling that brought you here at so fresh an age, boy?” River didn’t bother to acknowledge Daniel and spoke to Parker instead, who looked River straight in the eye and responded with a rigid and practiced manner.

“Sir, my father is good friends with a senator, sir. But I believe it was my aptitude and basic training proficiency that got me assigned to this operation, sir!” River nodded in his slow and methodical manner. Daniel, meanwhile, took the opportunity to jump in.

“Have you perhaps heard of Nikola Tesla? He is a Serbian engineer, brilliant and capable, and some say his deeply religious father made a deal with the devil when Nikola contracted Cholera at the age of seventeen.”

“Boy, don’t you make me get a switch.” Just at that, the doors in front of them opened and a well-dressed woman walked out, beckoning them forward. “Gentlemen, if you could come this way, he’s ready for you.”

The four men walked into the large office with some trepidation. It was ostentatious, with a nice hickory desk at the center and a large swivel chair (currently facing away from them), behind which large windows looked out onto the Capital city. Books, papers, pens, a phone, and documents were well organized all over the room and the only thing it lacked was extra chairs.

“Listen, 1899, Nikola made a receiver that he later got strange radio signals he believed to be originating from outer space! 1901, they were covered up by suggesting it was from Marconi’s experiments. Preposterous!” Daniel was trying to show the other three men some notes from his journal, but all three were uninterested in looking. River looked calmly down at Daniel.

“Boy, all I hear coming out of your mouth is wind, you understand me?” It was at that moment that the chair swiveled and the door shut. Before the four of them sat vice president Harry Truman. The three Americans all stood tall (Parker immediately saluted), but Daniel simply looked unimpressed.

“Gentlemen, as most of you seem to be aware, I am vice president Truman. You are all formerly requested to join Division Seven, a special operation that goes above and beyond the call of duty to respond to unusual and unnatural threats to global peace. It is not commonly known, and I don’t suggest trying to inform the public, but there are supernatural forces at work in this world, guiding and infiltrating other nations with a pervasive and malevolent intent. Division Seven exists as the American response to these threats, and your mission will be to counter the forces that are working with the German armies, eliminate them, and ultimately bring about the fall of the Nazi Regime. Do you have any questions?” Daniel quietly cleared his throat again.

“Not for you at this time, Mr. vice president, but rather from my colleague here. Are you going to apologize?” Daniel said to River. River looked somewhat dangerously over at Daniel and then back at Truman.

“Boy, if I have to say it one more time… Now, mister vice presi-dent, I apologize for my ignorance, I’m just a Virginian-grown man, but I believe I must have heard you incorrectly. Did you say supernatural?” Truman nodded and leaned forward on his desk.

“I understand this may come as a shock. I hardly believed it myself. But I assure you, all the myths and stories are real to some degree. For more information, you should ask Mr. Lowsley, who is one of the leading experts on the occult, and in fact, the main reason why he is on our American-based special operations team.”

“All right, quick question. Who all in this room believes in fairy tales, raise your hand?” River sounded almost to the point of cracking, but maintained a coolness brought on by years of practice. Truman and Daniel raised their hands.

“To be precise, however, the fairy tales themselves are incorrect, but they are based on truth. Take vampires, for example. There are many legends of vampires, from the vrykolakas in Greece to the stigoi in Romania, or from the origin of a Christian-based legend, cursed by God, to the Chinese belief that if a dog jumps over a corpse it can become undead. These things are real, though they might not look or act like we think of them, Mister Daniels.” Daniel spoke with a sense of wonder and fascination, holding his journal close to his heart and each time he swayed in place, a soft clink clink sound could be heard, as though from small vials bumping into each other. River closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

“All right, mister vice presi-dent, you tell me to go kill Nazi boogeymen, I’ll go kill Nazi boogeymen. I’m not misunderstanding you, am I? Because right now I’m not sure whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt, you understand.”

Truman smiled and nodded, pulling out a file marked Confidential. “I understand, and the answer is yes, your mission is to engage our enemy forces on every theater of war they open up. You simply specialize in eliminating unusual foes. Now, for your assignment.” Truman gave the file to River and looked at Parker, who had his hand raised like a schoolboy, and he looked about as green as one too. Truman nodded at Parker.

“My apologies, Mr. Truman sir, but I don’t think I’m in the right room.” Truman looked looked at his dossiers and took out one labelled Henderson, Parker.

“You are private Parker Henderson, recently finished from bootcamp, son of Jebudiah Henderson?” Parker nodded. “Then, yes, you’re supposed to be here. I understand senator Wayland Brooks requested you specifically at the behest of an old friend.” Parker looked even more green than before, but nodded and stood straight and tall.

“All right, your plane leaves in thirty minutes. I suggest gathering your things.” Parker once again raised his hand and was nodded at. “Can… can I make a phone call?”

“Parker, my boy, how’s that new assignment?”

“Dad, why did you put me on this? I don’t think I’m the right man for this operation!” Parker sounded frantic and high-pitched as he held himself back from shouting into the phone.

“Nonsense, you’re an army man! You’ll do great, my boy.”

“Dad, I don’t think I can even put this on my resume!”

“Resume? Parker Mason Henderson, you’re a military man now, and that’s the only resume you’ll need! Just remember that and go defend your country with pride!”

River walked up and flashed the confidential mission report at Parker. “Come on now, Turnip, time to go.”

Journal Entry 1

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. No one would believe me if I told them, so I figured I’d do what Lovecraft would do. Just write it down and let people think its fiction. I was born an orphan in Manchester. I found out a few years ago I could… do things. Some kind of arcane power maybe, I’m not sure. I just know I can do something different. But it isn’t good. I think it’s because God abandoned me; he abandoned us all. I started reading Lovecraft, looking into the occult and such, and I learned things about the world around us. It isn’t quite what it seems, I know. I know it. I can’t prove that vampyres exist, I can’t prove that lycanthrops are real, but bullocks if they aren’t among us! I joined the army because it was that or starve. That and the fucking Germans have bombed us to oblivion. Perhaps I’ll find what Lovecraft found. Perhaps I’ll find the bloody truth about me. Or anything in this God forsaken land. I’ll write something more later, when I know more.

Welcome to your Adventure Log!
A blog for your campaign

Every campaign gets an Adventure Log, a blog for your adventures!

While the wiki is great for organizing your campaign world, it’s not the best way to chronicle your adventures. For that purpose, you need a blog!

The Adventure Log will allow you to chronologically order the happenings of your campaign. It serves as the record of what has passed. After each gaming session, come to the Adventure Log and write up what happened. In time, it will grow into a great story!

Best of all, each Adventure Log post is also a wiki page! You can link back and forth with your wiki, characters, and so forth as you wish.

One final tip: Before you jump in and try to write up the entire history for your campaign, take a deep breath. Rather than spending days writing and getting exhausted, I would suggest writing a quick “Story So Far” with only a summary. Then, get back to gaming! Grow your Adventure Log over time, rather than all at once.


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